The Tree in the Book
by RainyDaysAndGoodBooks
Summary: Harry just wanted to finish his case. He never expected to end up in the Department of Mysteries, and he certainly never expected to lose Hermione. On top of all that, everyone is still treating him like a hero, and it's getting so old he's seriously about to lose it.


**Trio-era  
What the fic centers around: (quote) "To Harry Potter, the boy who lived."  
PROMPTS:  
1\. (quote) 'Let's face it; this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.' - Tony Stark, Iron Man  
2\. (word) Piano  
3\. (word) Atmosphere**

 **Thanks to my amazing BETAs: Queen Bookworm the First and SpacesInMyMind  
**  
The wooden floors groaned ominously under Harry's grimy sneakers.

"Hermione?" he called out hesitantly. "Hermione!" There was no answer but the creak of the floorboards.

Groaning slightly, he made his way through her cozy flat. It was surprisingly neat. There were no books lying about and the glossy top of the piano was shining. Harry still wasn't sure why she'd gotten a piano. It wasn't as if she really played it. But he hadn't come here to stare at a piano.

"Hermione!" he called again. The continued silence led him to assume that she really was out, and he turned toward the door with a hint of frustration, accidentally knocking a newspaper off her tiny table.

He picked it up to see his face splashed across the cover. "Potter Saves the Day Again!" it read in large, black, block letters over an article covering the latest case he'd solved, despite the fact that he was just a trainee— two other full Aurors had been just as involved as he had. Harry sighed unhappily and threw it back on the table with a tad more force than necessary.

* * *

The walk to the little coffee shop he often frequented with Hermione and Ron was arduous and more than once he was tempted to simply apparate, but then he remembered the disapproving looks Hermione threw his way whenever he mentioned he'd spent all day sitting down in the office.

He had just rounded the corner when he bumped into a squat man with a large and slightly squashed hat. The man was holding the hand of a little boy that looked almost identical to him. "Sorry," Harry said automatically as he turned to keep walking.

The man and his son, however, hadn't moved at all. In fact, they were staring at him with a kind of awe. "Blimey," said the man. "Are you Harry Potter?"

"Yes, I am," said Harry shortly, and he walked away quickly before the man or the boy could ask anything else.

"Dad," he heard the boy say from behind him, "Dad. We just saw HARRY POTTER, _the actual Harry Potter_."

Harry scowled at the cracked cement sidewalk. Was it really that big of a deal? It had been over a year. _Shouldn't everyone be done with my story by now?_ he thought grumpily.

His thoughts took him all the way up Saint Peter's Street, down Fisher Ave, and into the cool air of the little shop.

He was greeted by a whiff of fresh coffee. "Just a pumpkin scone, thanks," he said. "And... uh has Hermione been here recently?" That Harry, Hermione, and Ron visited the little shop so often all its employees knew them by name was a fact that Ginny teased them endlessly about.

The cashier smiled brightly at him. "Not today, sorry."

Where could she have gone? he thought. She knew he needed to borrow _Human Transfiguration Volume 2: When Wizards Grow Leaves_ for his latest case and that he was planning to swing by Neville's later, so, he didn't have much time.

He bit into his pumpkin scone and was rewarded with a mix of spices reminiscent to those in pumpkin pasties. _It won't be that hard to find Hermione, and then I'll be on my way. After that, it won't take much time to finish the case, and I can finally catch a game of Quidditch with Ron_ , he thought happily.

The joy he had been feeling vanished when he spotted three young women whispering avidly as they pointed wildly in his direction. His stomach fell even further when he heard his name in their conversation.

"Harry Potter . . . hero . . . chosen one . . . totally amazing." The bite of scone felt dry in his mouth, and he quickly turned away from them and hurried off the street.

 _Maybe I should try Ron_ , he thought. _He should be in our flat anyway._ Ducking into a dark alleyway and trying to ignore the scent of rotting fish wafting up from a suspicious looking pile, he turned quickly on the spot and Apparated, shuddering at the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.

A few seconds later, he emerged from the entrance of another alley, albeit a cleaner one. In a few minutes, he had made his way down the magnolia-lined street and turned to a quaint flat with a bright red door. The door was freshly painted, but it already had a chip in it from the time Ron had forgotten he was holding his broom, went to open the door, and slammed the handle into it.

Harry inserted the key and prayed that Ron knew where Hermione was. He opened the door to a pile of shoes and walked carefully over to the coffee table, which was littered with magazines and old drinks, to grab a glass of water.

"Ron. RON!" he yelled.

"I'll be there in a second," Ron yelled back. "I'm in the kitchen."

Harry took several gulps of water and then accidentally spilled half the glass down his shirt.

He set the glass down, sputtering slightly, and caught sight of a magazine sporting his own picture with the caption "The True Thoughts of Harry Potter".

"Ron," he called in disgust. "Why do you have a magazine with me on it in our living room?"

"Mum dropped some magazines off," Ron replied. "You know she takes any chance she can get to swing by now Ginny's the only one left at the house." He tromped into the living room holding a large plate of eggs in one hand and a fork in another. "Ooooh, a scone!" he said as he spotted the pastry clutched in Harry's hand.

"Here," said Harry handing him a piece. "Do you know where Hermione is?"

"Haven't a clue," Ron said, stuffing the piece into his mouth. "Maybe check the public library?"

It was then Harry realized something so blatantly obvious he could have kicked himself. "Ron," he said slowly. "I've been running all over the place, and I could have just used a point-me spell the entire time."

"Oh," said Ron, pausing briefly in his consummation of the eggs.

Harry turned away quickly. "See you, mate," he called as he muttered the spell.

He followed his wand past the large library, past the grocery store, past the peeling paint of the post office, and into the dingy bathroom that led to the Ministry. He noticed immediately that the atmosphere was slightly different. The tiled hallways hummed with excitement and people seemed to be talking every way he turned.

"Did you hear?" a tall woman said, turning to her friend, a tiny witch with hair so frizzy it seemed ready to engulf her, "They're redoing the Ministry statues!"

Harry sighed and brushed past them. He rode the rickety old lift four floors up and stepped out, gratefully massaging his side where it had been poked mercilessly by an orange polka-dotted umbrella.

But his wand did not lead him to the narrow hallway that hosted Hermione's office. Instead, it led him deeper and deeper into Ministry until he came to a place where they had no longer bothered to put in windows. The few people that were there were eerily silent and refused to make any sort of eye contact.

Harry furrowed his forehead and shivered in the cool dampness. He walked through corridor after corridor and still his wand led him further.

He had just turned yet another corner when something—or someone—pushed him violently to the ground. Harry jumped to his feet and pointed his wand at his attacker with lightning fast reflexes.

"Harry!" called his assailant joyfully. "It's me, Neville. I'm so sorry I bumped into you, but I'm so glad you're here. I was completely lost; it's like a maze down here and—"

But Harry interrupted him. "Where exactly is 'here'?"

"The Department of Mysteries, of course. Where did you think we were?"

So they hadn't forgotten to put in windows after all. They had meant to leave them out.

"No idea," said Harry. "But, Neville, what are you doing here?"

"Hermione asked me to help her with some sort of rare plant she found. I'm not really sure what it's all about, but I wasn't doing anything else so . . ."

"Alright," said Harry. "We'll find her together."

Harry's wand led them further and further downward until even the lights felt dimmer. They walked in silence, passing hallway after hallway, until suddenly the wand pointed abruptly right, and they turned into a tiled hallway that led to a miniature library.

For a room in the Department of Mysteries, it was not very mysterious. Rows of books lined shelves in orderly tiers, and the walls were painted a drab beige. Then Harry realized that each of the books was tightly bound. As they followed Harry's wand through the dusty shelves, they came to a large tree, at the base of which lay an open book.

"I know what this is!" cried Neville in wonder. "It's not really a real plant, but a while ago some wizards were experimenting, and they made this tree that lives in books. Whenever someone opens the book the tree just grows around them."

"Do you mean to say," said Harry in horror, "that Hermione is _inside_ that tree?"

"I reckon so," Neville said. "But it's an easy fix." He waved his wand hesitantly and called "Finite incantatem."

A jet of light streamed out of his wand, twirling slightly as if it were ribbon. Within seconds, the whole tree glowed with light, and then, as though it had never been there, the tree vanished.

There on top of the book, curled into a little ball, lay Hermione. Harry rushed over, forgetting everything else in his hurry to see if Hermione was alright. "Hermione, wake up c'mon, please." He shook her roughly and prayed that the tree hadn't been too dangerous.

With a small yawn, Hermione opened her eyes and sat up slowly.

"Thank Merlin," said Harry. "Why were you down here? What happened?"

"I . . . don't remember." Hermione said, blinking as she rubbed her eyes. "Why are you down here?"

"I was looking for you!" He turned to Neville with a hint of panic in his voice. "Is this normal? Do the victims usually not remember anything?"

Neville shrugged.

"Victims!" cried Hermione in alarm.

"You were stuck inside this massive tree; we think that it came out of the book you were reading. Neville saved you."

At this Neville shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Hermione looked equally amazed and horrified.

"Look," said Harry. "We'll get you to St. Mungo's just to get you checked out, and I'm sure they'll figure out why you can't remember anything."

Hermione still looked rather shocked, but she clambered up and the trio made their way back up to the Ministry entrance.

When they reached, the last door in the Department of Mysteries, they were swarmed with reporters.

"How did you rescue Hermione, Harry?"

"How many Chimaeras were there exactly?

"Hang on," said Harry. "How did you even know Hermione needed help?"

"Her coworkers reported her missing several hours ago. But, tell us, how did you rescue her?"

"I didn't. It was—" He looked around for Neville, but Neville seemed to have melted into the crowd. " . . . Neville," he finished softly.

Unfortunately, nobody heard him because just then, witches and wizards had started pouring out of their offices to see the whole affair.

"Can you Apparate?" he whispered in Hermione's ear. She nodded and her hair hit him full in the face. "Good," he said as he smelt the tangy scent of her citrus shampoo. "Go to St. Mungo's." She nodded again and in a swish of charcoal robes, she vanished.

Harry could hear everyone cheering and cheering and, _Merlin, why hadn't they stopped by now?_ He felt a headache coming on. It hadn't been him who had saved anyone and honestly, Neville had only used one spell—an easy one at that.

Somebody had summoned a champagne bottle and a couple dozen glasses. "To Harry Potter, the boy who lived," cried a dark wizard in magenta robes, and the cry was echoed all around.

Harry felt the blood rushing to his face, and suddenly he just couldn't take it anymore. It was entirely ridiculous, and they were grown adults! He Apparated home, grabbed his broom, and rushed to the very back of the Burrow's orchard.

* * *

The silence was wonderfully refreshing, and he could hear his deep breaths mixed in with the rustling of the trees and the faint pitter-patter of gnome footsteps.

The thoughts in his head grew louder and louder as the voices of others echoed in his head.

"That Harry Potter can save anyone."

"Do you know, he buys his robes at Madam Malkin's? That's why I always shop there."

"I saw him eating a sandwich the other day!"

Harry shook his head desperately as though the thoughts would fly away from him like water droplets. His broom handle felt smooth in his rough hands. He grasped it tightly and kicked off swiftly.

The air felt cool on his face, and he felt a thrill of exhilaration run through him.

He wasn't quite sure how long he flew, but the sun slowly sank lower and lower on the horizon until it simply disappeared. The moon climbed through the stars until it was at the very top of the sky. Through the rushing of the wind he heard a voice calling him.

"Harry, Harry!" He turned to see Ron shouting at the top of his lungs. "How long have you been flying, mate?"

Harry landed softly and was surprised to feel just how light-headed he was. His hands were throbbing, but he could not remember scraping them. He turned them upwards to see a terrain of torn and blistered skin.

It was at that moment Ron walked up behind him. "Harry," he said softly. "This isn't healthy. You can't just fly your problems away. One day you're going to kill yourself flying."

He sounded so much like Hermione that for a second, Harry just stared. The he sighed and said, "I'm fine, Ron. I'm fine."

Ron looked at him accusingly.

"Okay, I'm not, but I'm not un-fine either. And, look it wasn't even for that long. I- I promise I won't do it again and let's face it; this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing."

At this Ron turned away, and when he finally looked at Harry, the sadness in his eyes was so profound Harry almost stumbled backward. "What do you want us to do? We've been trying to help, you know. Me, Ginny, Hermione, everyone."

"I- I just hate how everyone always glorifies me. I hate how the media always talks about me, and how I can't even walk down the street. I know I should be used to it by now; I should have been over it by fourth year! But . . . I don't know. It just . . . still bothers me, and I know I should ignore it but . . . I just can't."

For a moment, Ron stood simply staring at him. "I know we haven't got it as bad as you, but come on, do you think you're the only one that has to see your face in the papers? You're not the only one who's been recognized walking down to the store. We get it, mate. We do. Neither Hermione nor I, or anyone else, is going mental about it, though. You need to pull yourself together."

"Well, it's not like I'm not trying," Harry said abrasively.

"We know, but you need to find a better way to deal with it. Flying yourself to death isn't going to help, and neither is anything else that avoids the problem. Just come talk to us, Harry. Make some tea, learn some spells. Do anything—anything that isn't destructive."

"I think," said Harry haltingly, "that I just need something to focus on."

"Then focus on your case. Focus on us. I'm sure if you ask Hermione, she'll give you tons of stuff to do." He paused. "And, Harry, seriously, if you need absolutely anything, we're here."

"Thanks, Ron," said Harry thickly.

"No problem, mate. Now, come on, let's go solve that case!"

"I think," said Harry slowly as the gears began to turn, and he recalled Hermione's tree, "I know exactly where to start."


End file.
